


Until Mourning

by Why Am I The Witness (PoisonedDeath)



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Gen, Self-Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3713764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonedDeath/pseuds/Why%20Am%20I%20The%20Witness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark's past has caught up with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until Mourning

Mark was sitting alone, cross-legged on the couch, with his left arm raised. He cautiously tilted his arm, watching the way the horizontal lines of silver looked in different lights. It’d been almost 3 years since the blade had last pierced his flesh – he’d stopped at some point during Roger’s withdrawal – but he had no reason not to relapse anymore.

“I loved you,” he whispered to the empty air. He wasn't sure if he was talking about the scars, about the blade itself, about Roger, about his old friends or even himself. He hardly remembered a time when he did love himself, but those moments with Roger, where they'd just sit and talk about nothing, were the first that came to mind. He didn’t love himself then, but he was tolerable and that was enough. Having Roger by his side, even as a friend, was enough. Now, he’s alone and the loft is quiet – too quiet and it hurt. Everything hurt, and yet the strawberry blonde haired man couldn’t feel a thing.

He hadn’t cried for three weeks. He cried at first, and he cried until the funeral, but as soon as it was over, all sorrow dissolved into the tears, and all he was left with was nothingness. The raised lines along his arm caught his eyes again, and he found himself gently running his fingers along the skin. He knew how they all felt – each and every single one – and just their presence was enough to both comfort him, and strengthen the feeling of need that was running through his body. He needed to bleed and nothing could change that. He wanted to cut, but really, he wanted Roger.

Before he’d had a chance to analyse anything, he was standing in Roger’s room, going through a few of the dead rocker’s belongings. He hadn’t even opened the door to the room since the other man had died, but now he was rummaging around, tainting each item one by one. When he finally found what he was looking for – the razor Roger had always shaved with – Mark sat on the stained and battered bed. Roger had always kept it away from Mark, constantly afraid of infecting the younger man, but it wasn’t something that mattered anymore. It couldn’t matter to Roger since he was dead, and Mark certainly didn’t care.

The blade was being pushed into Mark’s skin before he could acknowledge it, parting the flesh slightly to create one single, thin line of red. It stung slightly, but not enough for Mark, who pressed the blade in again, slightly deeper this time. The blood spilled down his pale arm, riding over the bumps of the previous wounds. _It’ll all kill me eventually_ , he thought, but suddenly the blade was being pressed, pushed, pulled into his skin, dragged across creating line after line, each deeper than the last. He cupped his hand as best as he could, making a feeble attempt to catch the escaping blood, but he knew he didn’t care. His arm was red. Red. All red, covered in violent, random slashes. He didn’t care. Something drifted over him, a feeling of calm, unlike anything he’d experienced before. Weightless. His eyelids grew heavier, but all he could see was Roger. Peace.


End file.
